All the Glory That I Bear
by Vivi Dahlin
Summary: When Santana falls victim to a hate crime, Brittany comes to her aid as only Brittany can. Post-Rumours.


**Title: **All the Glory That I Bear  
><strong>Summary: <strong>When Santana falls victim to a hate crime, Brittany comes to her aid as only Brittany can. Post-Rumours.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Alas, it all belongs to Ryan Murphy, and not I. (With the exception of two original and very minor characters.)  
><strong>AN: **This is my first crack at Brittana and the _Glee_ fandom. Turns out they're a rowdy bunch - the story contains some offensive language, so be forewarned. I must also point out that this site forced me to replace a cute little heart icon with the actual word "heart." (_I know_. Pretend it didn't happen.)

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><p>PART ONE<p>

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><p>"Are you taking drugs?"<p>

Vacant gaze trained out the passenger side window, Santana took a moment to register the question. She almost laughed as she turned to her mother in the driver's seat, but the mirth fell short of her dark eyes. She rolled them instead, surprised by her own harsh tone as she answered.

"No, Mom, unlike some people in this family I'm not chemically dependent."

The only noticeable reaction was a whitening of the caramel colored skin where her mother's knuckles gripped the steering wheel. For some reason, that pissed Santana off even more. She glared at the oversized black sunglasses concealing wide brown eyes, so like her own. They remained fixed on the road ahead.

"Well, I was just asking." Finally, Estella Lopez glanced at her daughter, and even though she couldn't see it, Santana felt herself being looked up and down. "You haven't been yourself lately."

Santana fiddled with the hard copper button at her hip, squeezing it till her fingers hurt. The overalls had become her go-to outfit in recent weeks due to their versatility. She liked to mix and match—a tank or tube top underneath; the straps hanging loose, buckles tucked in pockets to display a cute peasant blouse. Belted, unbelted. Wedge heels or flats. On one of the cooler days she'd even chanced wearing a plaid flannel shirt over the bibs for warmth. Nobody commented. In fact, she'd seen a couple girls roaming the halls of William McKinley in similar ensembles soon after.

Mostly she liked the convenience of stripping off her pajamas and slipping into the lightweight denim. Lack of sleep combined with an easy to reach snooze button meant less and less prep time each morning. Cutting back on wardrobe decisions gave her a few extra minutes for hair and makeup. It had seemed like a good trade off, but the once-over from her mother told her she wasn't fooling anybody.

She silently cursed her empty gas tank. Another downside of insomnia: you forgot to do stuff like stop for gas so you wouldn't need a ride to school from your judgmental mom the next day.

"Can't you just be glad I'm not dressed like a slut for once?" she snapped.

"I never said you dress like a slut—"

"Oh, pardon me. A common whore."

Estella sighed and began flicking her fingernails together, a nervous habit Santana loathed. "I apologized for that. But the skirt was too short and you know it. You don't want to give guys the wrong idea."

Santana let out a humorless chuckle. She disliked being "difficult," a term her parents used, often in conjunction with pouring another cocktail. Despite her outspoken ways at school, she was a champ at shutting up when she got home. She exercised that power now, but not before adding allusively, "You're right about that."

"Honey… no one's been… inappropriate with you, have they?"

Brow knit in confusion, Santana stared. "You mean, like, am I being fondled by the creepy janitor?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Estella nodded. "Something like that."

"Nah," Santana said, with a weak smile. No matter how ridiculous, worry at least proved a person cared, right? "Overalls only equal child molestation on Lifetime Movie Network."

"Good." Estella gave another sharp nod. "Good."

Santana relaxed when her mother reached for the volume dial, turning up the muted radio and ending the awkward conversation as abruptly as it began. Golden oldies weren't her music genre of choice, but this station had provided material for glee club in the past. She listened to the sweet swell of Connie Francis's voice, aching for that someone, that one boy, who awaited her, and her alone.

The welcome sight of William McKinley High School quelled Santana's urge to dig out her iPod and earbuds. She was halfway out the door before her mother put the vehicle in park.

"Santana."

Shouldering her heavy book bag, Santana reluctantly turned, allowing a side view to her mother, not a bit more. Her heartbeat fluttered as she imagined what the next question would be. Maybe a moment of clarity had broken through the self-absorption and booze.

"Please tell me you're not pregnant."

_Nope_.

"I'm not pregnant." Santana slammed the car door and escaped into the brick building that was consuming one teenager after another.

xxx

_I'm a lesbian_. For the past two hours Santana had replayed the incident, wishing she'd had the courage to be truthful with her mother. She zoned out Will Schuester's reminder of an upcoming quiz and briefly wondered at the Spanish translation of her news. _Yo soy lesbiana_?

She penciled the confession onto a page margin, no intentions of using it, closed her textbook with a thud and crammed it into her overstuffed bag. Lugging the thing around was a pain in the ass, but her locker had refused to budge this morning. One of many perks when you attended the Lima public school system.

"_Adios_," she mumbled with the rest of the class as they were dismissed. Mr. Schuester shot her a curious look, so she bolted from the room the minute he was distracted by Rachel Berry and her incessant need to be teacher's pet. Santana made a mental note to abstain from calling the petite girl a hobbit for at least a full week. To her face, anyway.

She picked up speed as she rounded a corner, headed for the girls' bathroom. Her lip curled in disdain when she saw Lauren Zizes and a couple of her plain friends whom Santana didn't know, and didn't care to, blocking the path. She didn't want another confrontation today, but there was something about the heavyset girl that got under her skin. It wasn't the brutish features scowling from behind granny glasses, nor the hideous fashion sense. It wasn't even the fact that Lauren had tossed her around like a rag doll in front of the whole school — pick a fight with someone who outweighs you by at least two hundred pounds, you're bound to get your ass kicked.

No, it was that cocky attitude Lauren strutted around with, especially when Noah Puckerman was by her side. Puckerman had been a warm, chiseled body and Santana didn't miss him. But it irritated her to see him following Lauren around like a puppy. Santana worked hard to maintain a perfect image; whether she must beat her naturally kinky hair into submission, deny herself food, go under the knife, or screw up the chance to be with someone she loved, she did it. Lauren did nothing and still got the guy.

As the three girls approached, Lauren murmured something to her friends, and Santana could tell they had no intention of making space for her to pass. She lifted her chin defiantly and continued on at a brisk pace. Retreat was not an option. If you give a mouse a cookie…

And Lauren Zizes was no mouse.

Santana braced for the impact as her shoulder collided with the larger girl's. She felt Lauren put some muscle into it, but she kept her footing and announced to anyone in earshot: "Watch it, tubbers."

"Eat me, Sappho," came the loud reply.

Several pairs of shoes squeaked to a halt against the floor tiles. An audience had definitely formed, and to Santana's horror her cheeks flushed hotly. She didn't understand the insult, but the grins on nearby faces told her that others did. And they approved. Being called a wetback or Jezebel didn't bother her—she knew how to respond to that. But she was unsure which fat joke would deliver a worse blow than she'd apparently received, and her hesitation cost her.

Lauren smirked. "Too archaic?" She made a showy hand gesture, offering her friends the chance for input. "Ladies, help her out."

The skinny one with braces and acne complied eagerly. "Gertrude Stein."

Santana gulped. The name sounded familiar. A writer, or something. She racked her brain, trying to piece together how it applied to her. Unfortunately, that gave the pudgy, mousy-haired, more timid friend the opportunity to chime in.

"Rosie O'Donnell."

Ah.

"Contemporary enough for you?" Lauren said, arms crossed with satisfaction.

Rumors of her sexuality appeared to have fizzled out after Santana denied the _Muckraker_ article and did everything short of hump Karofsky whenever they were in the public eye. Her false sense of security evaporated just as publicly now. She considered using the Bully Whips as an excuse for her silence, but that sounded so weak. And Lauren was making kissy faces in the air.

Santana put on a patronizing smile, the subtle movement of her head like that of a cobra ready to strike. "You wish, Truffle Shuffle."

"Actually, no." Lauren shrugged apologetically. "I'm all het, no femslash."

"Oh, I didn't mean that." Santana flicked a lock of hair from her shoulder. "It's just that things would be so much easier for you if I _were_ gay."

"How so?"

"Sooner or later Puckerman's gonna get tired of looking for a place to stick it," Santana said, her finger making a wide circle in the air to indicate Lauren's girth. "Boy'll realize he only likes his Jell-O jiggly, and when he does he'll come a-runnin' back to the best he's ever had." She trailed her hands down her sides, drawing attention to trim waist, small hips.

Fingers coiling into tight fists, Lauren visibly seethed; Pudge and Braces looked like they might burst into tears or faint. But no one named off another famous lesbian.

Santana flashed her wickedest grin and sauntered towards the bathroom. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to use the human facilities. The watering hole's down that way." She gave a dismissive wave, adding as the door slid closed, "You might want to do a few laps before stopping."

xxx

After checking that each stall was empty, Santana locked herself in the last one, dropped her backpack on the floor and slumped to the toilet without unfastening her overalls. She was there for the privacy and the respite, not for her bladder. The combination of embarrassment, anger, and headiness at getting the upper hand on an arch nemesis had left her with shaky legs and a stomach in knots. Instead of victorious, she felt drained and ashamed of her behavior. It was getting harder to attack others' insecurities when she had so many of her own.

She unzipped the top of her bag and fished out a tissue, letting a few silent tears escape. They fell in quick succession and she was on the verge of a full-blown crying jag when the bathroom entrance creaked open, announcing a second occupant. Swallowing a sob, Santana quickly dabbed her eyes, though she was hidden from view. More than one girl had scuffled in, and she waited for them to latch their stall doors so she could gather herself and slip out unnoticed. They seemed intent on loitering, however, and Santana clucked her tongue in annoyance. She nixed the idea of calling out for them to take their gossip elsewhere — why stir up even more trouble? — and inhaled deeply, feigning nonchalance as she exited the stall.

Her heart sank when she saw who stood in front of the sinks that ran the length of the opposite wall. Lauren Zizes, flanked by her nameless and, in the case of the mousy-haired girl whose bangs badly needed trimming, almost faceless cronies.

_Crap_.

Santana decided to pretend they weren't even there. It was a strategy she used at home when her parents were arguing, or cozying up to a bottle. She crossed to one of the unguarded basins, rinsed her hands, dried them with a paper towel, then straightened her hair ribbon in the mirror and checked the state of her makeup. Other than a buzzing fluorescent light and dripping faucet, the ritual passed in silence. She turned to go, wondering if that was it. Maybe they were content to stare her down, hoping to make her feel self-conscious or guilty.

Lauren moved in front of her, their chests bumping into each other, knocking Santana back a step.

Maybe not.

Jaw set in frustration, Santana clamped eyes with the girl and tried to sidestep her, first to the right and then the left. When both attempts were blocked, she reached her limit. Backpack acting as a shield, she rammed into Lauren with all the strength her 100-pound frame could muster. She immediately saw the flaw in this plan as the bag was yanked from her hands and swung at her torso with such force she doubled over, gasping and seeing stars.

A slender pair of arms grabbed her from behind when Lauren barked out, "Cammie!" So that was Braceface's name. Santana was pretty sure she could kick Cammie's bony ass under normal conditions. But not while coughing and gagging with every breath.

She struggled pitifully to break free as Lauren upended her bag and let its contents spill to the dingy floor in a brief but noisy fanfare. Pens and pencils skittered in all directions. Lip gloss caps shot off like tiny missiles. Three heavy textbooks lay in a gnarled heap amidst the clutter, and weeks' worth of class notes fluttered to the ground like confetti, as if each sheet with its neat, curly handwriting carried no weight at all.

"Oops," said Lauren, grinding into the mess with the sole of her red Converse sneaker.

"B-bitch," Santana sputtered.

"Did you hear what she called you, Mindy?" Lauren addressed the pudgy friend, but kept her steely gaze on Santana. She bent and scooped up the black Sharpie that was nestled between a wrapped tampon and a packet of cotton candy flavored Bubblicious. Holding it out to Mindy, she said, "I wouldn't let her get away with that."

Mindy's hand trembled as she reached for the marker. "Lauren, we're gonna get in so much trouble."

"She compared us to animals," Lauren said in a threatening tone.

Santana regretted the insult, and not simply because of how it was backfiring. Her reputation had taken on such a life of its own, most of the things she said felt scripted. She was an actress reciting the words to a hateful little play. Except it wasn't a play, and words had consequences.

She thought about apologizing, but the pain in her abdomen and the way Mindy folded under pressure wouldn't allow it. When the girl was close enough, Santana fended her off with a kick. It caught Mindy in the shin and she hopped back, more startled than hurt.

It also made her mad. Showing some initiative, Mindy ordered Lauren and Cammie to hold their captive still, and with a deft move by William McKinley's lone female wrestler, Santana found herself pinned to the cold, disgusting bathroom tile. She stared up at the ceiling, disoriented and blinking. Someone's knee jabbed her in the ribs. She had bitten her lip and drawn blood. The metallic taste brought her back to reality where Mindy straddled her stomach, scrawling on the front of her bibs with the Sharpie.

"Get off me, you stupid cunt," Santana said breathlessly, squirming to free an arm, leg, anything. Could she fill her lungs with enough air, she would have screamed. Not from fear or helplessness, but blind rage.

"Damn, Lopez, you just don't know when to quit, do you?" Lauren's face appeared, hovering inches above. Cammie must be on leg duty.

"Fuck you!" Tears blurred Santana's vision as she watched Lauren intercept the marker from Mindy, its felt tip lowering to her forehead. Feeling the clutch on her wrists slacken, she wrenched a hand loose and went for the nearest thing.

Glasses.

She tore them off Lauren's face, clawing into flesh with her manicured nails.

The girl yelped in surprise and clamped a hand over the bright red scratch marks. Snatching the glasses before Santana could fling them across the room, Lauren jammed them back on. They balanced comically on her nose, making her appear cross-eyed. No one noticed the humor, though, especially when she grabbed a pair of scissors that poked out from the rubble of school supplies. Relatively small, they were used mainly for clipping errant threads or the occasional split end. But they were sharp and efficient.

"Lauren, don't!" Mindy cried.

"Relax," Lauren said, giving Santana's cheek a soft caress. "I'm not going to stab these in her pretty face, even if she deserves it."

Santana cringed at the suggestion, heart thumping wildly. She tried to buck Mindy and Cammie off yet again, but they didn't budge. She panted from the effort, unable to form the word "sorry" even if she'd wanted to.

"I'm just going to improve her look a little." Lauren fisted the hair splayed around Santana's head, pulling it taut. Then she cut it with an unceremonious snip. "Some girls like their ladies butch, I hear."

Santana gave in to the urge to cry openly when Lauren shook loose the raven strands that twined her chubby fingers. "Stop," she blurted, teardrops streaming along her temples, wetting the insides of her ears. She didn't care if she was whimpering like a baby. "Please."

Lauren frowned, her disappointment obvious, scissors poised in midair for what felt like an eternity. Finally she chucked them aside, unable to justify torturing a begging victim instead of one who hurled abuse. Mindy and Cammie scurried to their feet, relieved. They surveyed the litter on the floor like survivors of a natural disaster, in awe of chaos and destruction. Neither of them dared glance at Santana.

Rising from her knees, Lauren dusted off her leggings and brushed a few stray hairs from her sleeve. "Well. Since you asked nicely," she said.

Santana lay motionless, the sudden freedom to move almost as jarring as the complete lack of it. She prayed the girls would leave before her body succumbed to the quaking sobs that scalded her throat as she choked them down. She wanted to curl up in a fetal position and stay that way. Forever.

But Cammie had made a discovery. She pointed it out to Lauren, who crouched to retrieve it. Like any seventeen-year-old girl, Santana needed an outlet for her feelings, the true ones she rarely shared with others. Sometimes she jotted the feelings down or doodled them in a tablet at school, since they often articulated themselves during boring class lectures. Such a tablet now rested in the hands of Lauren Zizes and she seemed very much intrigued by the inside front cover.

A week prior, while the dullest substitute teacher in history droned on about some ancient civilization or another, Santana had spent an entire hour casting furtive glances at Brittany Pierce, writing the pretty blonde's name in huge bubble letters and professing her love in varying degrees of sappiness.

_Brittany S(o much hotter than Spears) Pierce_. _I _heart _Brittany. Britt-Britt + Tana. Santana Pierce/Brittany Lopez. Santittany. Brittana. _

Every bit of it was printed inside the cover and on many of the pages that ensued.

"My, my, my," Lauren said, eyebrows raised. She dangled her treasure in the air, giving Santana a good, long look at it. "Wouldn't want just anyone to get their grubby little paws on this, now would we?"

Santana shook her head. "No," she said softly.

"I better hold onto it for safe keeping." Lauren tucked the tablet under her arm. "And let's hope nobody like, say, Principal Figgins hears about what went on here. Otherwise Britt-Britt might find her name mentioned in a photocopy or two on the bulletin boards around school."

Santana nodded dejectedly.

"All right, then. It's been swell," Lauren said, ushering Mindy and Cammie towards the door. "Buh-bye, Tana."

"Bye, Tana," the other girls echoed when nudged.

The moment they exited, Santana's last ounce of resolve went with them. She was still crumpled on the floor when Quinn Fabray found her several minutes later.

xxx

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><p>PART TWO<p>

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><p>Brittany was teaching Becky Jackson how to balance a spoon on the tip of her nose when she heard Emma Pillsbury call to her over the din of the crowded lunchroom. She gave the younger girl an encouraging thumbs up, then collected her messenger bag and the vintage <em>Saved by the Bell <em>lunch box that once belonged to her mother. The prim guidance counselor fidgeted as she crooked her index finger, beckoning with urgency. Maybe all the germ-infested teenagers grossed her out. Or maybe she had to pee.

Uncertain what either of those things had to do with herself, Brittany decided Miss Pillsbury must be ready to accept the sex advice she'd offered as compensation for a particularly helpful counseling session. She brightened at the idea and greeted the red-head with a friendly smile.

"May I speak with you in private?" Emma said, her own smile apologetic.

"Sure." Brittany followed Emma's lead, carefully planning which sexual act to describe first and how to keep the shock value down so as not to give the woman a heart attack or stroke. Old people were so delicate.

"Brittany, I don't want to alarm you," Emma began, placing a gentle hand on the girl's elbow when they reached the abandoned hallway, its silence an eerie contrast to the noise they had left behind. "But I think you should come to the nurse's office."

"What?" Brittany tilted her head, perplexed. "Oh my God, do I have cancer?"

"No, no." Emma gave Brittany a light pat and hurried to clarify, "It's Santana, honey. Someone physically assaulted her in one of the bathrooms. She's okay, but she's very upset and refuses to say who's responsible. I know you two are close— "

Brittany didn't stay for the rest. She removed her wedge sandals and sprinted the length of McKinley High, the slap of bare feet resounding through every inch of space that stood between her and her best friend. Just outside the tiny office she liked to visit for its complimentary Band-Aids, she skidded to a stop. She took a calming breath and peered around the doorjamb.

Santana sat in the middle of a small cot that filled much of the room, arms encircling her knees, face buried in the sleeves of her purple top. Frightened by how vulnerable she looked, Brittany crept closer and tentatively touched her shoulder, whispering, "Santana, it's me."

For a long time the only response was a sniffle. Then a pair of bloodshot brown eyes emerged, puffiness and smeared mascara a tell-tale sign that Santana had been crying for quite a while. Hard.

"Can I sit?"

Santana nodded, shifting enough for Brittany to take a seat on the cot. Hip to hip, they peered at each other in turns until Brittany slid her arm around Santana's waist, breaking the tension. They hugged fiercely, neither of them willing to let the other go.

"What happened?" Brittany asked, palm circling her friend's back in a slow, soothing motion.

"Got jumped. Deserved it."

Santana's stuffy nose and a catch in her voice muffled the answer. Brittany eased away enough to see and hear her better, their foreheads almost touching. At that angle she noticed black smudges near Santana's hairline, the underlying skin pink and raw, as if it had been scrubbed vigorously. Still, she could make out faint traces of the letters D and Y. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but shut it when she saw the words scribbled across the front bib of Santana's overalls.

_Muff Diver._

It didn't take a genius to fill in the blanks.

Brittany's chin trembled as the gravity of the situation sunk in. "No way," she said, shaking her head with vehemence. "There's nothing you could do to deserve this."

She dug into her pocket and pulled out a ChapStick, which she uncapped and tenderly daubed on Santana's split lip. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"My stomach's kinda sore. And I've got a headache." Santana shrugged off both ailments and leaned into Brittany's embrace. "I'll live. I'm a tough-ass cookie. Like those Lorna Doone shortbread things when they get stale."

Sensing a wall going up, as it so often did when Santana refused to deal with a problem, Brittany cupped a hand under the girl's chin and urged her to make eye contact. "Who did it?"

The determination on Brittany's normally cheerful face put an end to the façade. Santana blinked rapidly, fresh tears glistening like dew in her eyelashes. "I can't tell you."

"Yes, you can. You just say, 'Brittany, it was so-and-so.' And then I go kick their ass."

"It's not that simple."

"Why?" Brittany challenged.

"Because she— they— the person who did it took my journal," said Santana, agitation increasing with each falter. "It was in my bag and it's full of private stuff, Britt. Stuff about you and-… and the way I feel about you. If I nark on them, they're going to out me to the whole fucking school!"

Brittany absorbed the information quietly, head bowed. People often mistook her slow arousal to anger at an offense as proof of her dimwittedness, but the truth was she generally did not let what others thought affect her. When it affected Santana, however, she cared a great deal.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured as fat, repentant teardrops began to spill down her cheeks without warning. "It's all my fault."

"How could it be your fault?" Santana's brow furrowed with concern. "You weren't even there."

"But if I'd kept my mouth shut, that write-up never would've been printed about you in the _Muckraker_. Then nobody would even suspect you're a lesbian, and this wouldn't have happened to you." Brittany drew a shuddering breath. "I'm such an idiot."

"Hey, no." Santana held up her palm, signaling that such negativity was unacceptable. She used the back of her other hand to dry Brittany's tears. "You are not an idiot. You just think outside the box, is all. The most creative people do."

"Yeah?"

Santana nodded and tucked a blond wisp behind the girl's ear. "Mm-hmm. And more importantly, you're a good person. The best I know."

Gradually Brittany's smile turned into a beam, her blue eyes sparkling. Santana always knew the right thing to say. Catching her friend's hand, Brittany kissed the moist spot on its back, then sneezed when something Santana was holding tickled her nose. "What is that?" she asked, features twitching in a bunny-like fashion.

"Oh." Santana gazed down at her lap. "It's, um, hair. Mine."

Brittany had noticed Santana's disheveled hair, but attributed it to the tussle. She gasped when the girl turned to reveal that her sleek black mane— a deep and understandable source of pride, due to its luxurious beauty— now fell asymmetrically, slanting downwards from her left shoulder. It surprised her that she hadn't been consulted about such a dramatic change in hairstyle. She and Santana never made any major fashion decisions without first telling each other.

Resembling a forlorn little girl, Santana faced her again. It occurred to Brittany that the new haircut wasn't by choice, and she covered her mouth before any thoughtless remarks managed to pop out. "Oh, God," she said. "Oh my God."

"There's more in there," Santana gestured to the open backpack that rested on a chair near the cot. "Along with everything else that got trashed. After the fight Quinn came in and helped pick most of it up. She was going to throw this away, but…"

She opened her palm and studied the lock of hair as she trailed off, forgetting to finish.

Brittany gingerly petted the strands with the tip of her forefinger. "Poor little guy."

That made Santana laugh. "Great, I have shitty hair _and_ it's male."

"It's not that bad. You can rock this look."

"Brittany. I look like Rihanna's stylist got tanked and played Sweeney Todd on my head."

"I don't speak whatever language that is," Brittany said, this time fussing with the remainder of Santana's hair. She smoothed down the part and used her fingers to comb out the rest. "But I know you could shave your head and still be hot. Like G.I. Jane."

Her observation elicited more laughter, just as she hoped it would.

"Well, I shouldn't be telling you this," said Santana, voice lowered to a confidential level, "but the bin Laden sniper? Me."

"I had my suspicions."

They giggled together until another solemn expression darkened Santana's mood. "You don't think I'm butch, do you?" she asked, fretful.

"Other than that time you accidentally punched me during Cheerios practice and I thought my boob was gonna fall off, no." Brittany gave her friend's knee a reassuring squeeze. "You're the least butch girl in Lima. Maybe anywhere. And this is coming from someone who's seen you naked."

Santana blushed prettily and allowed Brittany to pull her off the cot and onto her feet. She balked, though, at being led to the open doorway. "I should probably check in with the nurse or Miss Pillsbury before I go," she said, glancing into the adjoining room where both women conversed across the nurse's desk.

"But you're coming to class, right?"

With a sweep of the hand, Santana indicated her unkempt appearance and the ugly, bold letters on her chest. "I can't finish the day like this, Britt. I'll probably just call my mom and go home. Not that I want her to see me, either." She blanched suddenly. "Oh God, she's going to ask so many questions."

Brittany glanced around for a bucket, certain that Santana was about to vomit. Instead she spotted her messenger bag on the floor where it had been discarded upon entry, along with lunchbox and shoes. An idea forming, she knelt quickly and rifled through her belongings. Seconds later, face radiant with triumph, she stood and offered Santana a neatly folded pair of skinny jeans. "Here. Put these on."

Unfurling the jeans at arms length, Santana examined them like a department store shopper. "You carry an extra pair of pants around with you?" she said, equal parts impressed and incredulous.

"I had an accident once in kindergarten. I've kept a spare ever since."

Santana smiled at her friend with unmistakable fondness. "What about my hair?"

"We'll go to the salon right after school. I know a kick-ass hairdresser, and I've got the perfect style in mind for you already." Brittany reached over and plucked out the scissors whose handles jutted from a pouch on the front of Santana's backpack. "Until then— "

She leaned to one side and angled the sharp blades around the tail of her long French braid, snipping it off inches above the rubber band that held it in place.

Santana gaped as the thick plait landed at Brittany's feet. "Holy shit! What the hell did you just do?"

Brittany raked her nails through the leftover flaxen strands on her head, shaking them out into attractive, albeit crooked, waves. "I'm keeping you company," she said, pocketing the remnant of braid and looping her arm with Santana's. "Besides, it's just hair. It'll grow back."

xxx

"There's something different about you."

Santana paused, a forkful of lettuce midway to her mouth, and anxiously waited as her father scrutinized her from across the dinner table.

Gary Lopez often worked late and had only pulled into the driveway moments before his wife served up their evening meal of salad and pot roast. Now he sat eyeing his daughter, whom he was seeing for the first time that day. "Did you get a haircut?"

"Without permission," Estella interjected.

Santana rolled her eyes. She had toughed out the remainder of the school day with Brittany by her side, enduring whispers and curious looks, and it actually hadn't been that bad. Coming home to her mother after the promised session with Brittany's hairdresser proved more difficult. Estella grilled her on everything from where she got her change of clothes to why she would "whack off something that beautiful," but Santana found she didn't much care. Her mind kept wandering back to sitting in the elevated barber chair next to Brittany, their ebony and ivory locks mingling on the salon floor.

"I'm not twelve anymore, Mom. And it's my head." To her father she added, "A friend and I decided to get it done after school. She cut hers, too."

"Well, it's very becoming," Gary said, nodding his approval. "Makes you look all grown up."

"Thank you, Daddy." Santana spoke sweetly and managed not to quirk a smug eyebrow when her mother sighed with exasperation. She did appreciate the compliment.

Throwing caution to the wind, she had given Brittany full say in what hairstyles they chose. Within minutes the girl had returned, brandishing photos copied from the public access computers in the library— stills of the movie musical _Chicago_. Catherine Zeta-Jones stared up intensely from one page; Renée Zellweger pouted coyly from the other. Appropriate selections, Santana couldn't deny. But she had always believed her face to be the wrong shape for short hair, and the jaw-length bob Catherine sported with such fierceness was intimidating. The butterflies convinced her, though.

"Are you kidding? Look at how sexy she is. If anybody could pull that off better than her, it's you," had been Brittany's response to her reservations.

See? Butterflies.

Smiling, she forgot the food on her plate and toyed with her brand new bangs. She practically leapt to her feet when the doorbell rang, breaking into the reverie. "I'll get it," she said, speeding towards the foyer before anyone had the chance to object.

When they'd parted outside the Lopez residence, Brittany had vowed to stop by later with a surprise. It seemed early for her to be returning, but one never knew with that girl. Santana liked the unpredictability. Things were never dull with Brittany S. Pierce in your life.

She struck a vampish pose and swung the door open, prepared to greet her friend in true Velma Kelly style. Her posture immediately stiffened when she saw Lauren Zizes's eloquent sidekick Mindy standing on the doorstep. Of all the reasons Santana had to be displeased, the one she hated most was that she now feared this frumpy little person.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, crossing her arms and stepping back a safe distance. "How did you find my house?"

"I— " Mindy looked too petrified to speak. With a labored swallow, she managed to stutter, "I c-came to one of your pool parties last year. With a friend who got invited."

"Oh." Santana accepted the explanation begrudgingly. Her pool parties were rather legendary, which meant they were also subject to crashers. She didn't know half the people who showed up sometimes. "Guess I'll have to be even more selective with my invites this summer," she said.

Mindy shifted from one foot to the other, as if she were about to run away. "I don't blame you for hating me," she said quietly. "You have every right to, after what we— what _I_ did to you. I came to tell you how sorry I am. And to give you this."

Santana remained guarded, her widening eyes the one reaction she allowed herself as Mindy proffered the makeshift journal Lauren had stolen. She reached for it slowly, though her instincts were to snatch it up. "Is it laced with Anthrax, or something?" she said, leafing through the pages and finding them intact.

"No. And it's all there. Lauren didn't make any copies or pass it around. I was with her up until Home Ec, and I snuck it out of her backpack when she was putting our banana bread in the oven."

"Why?" This time Santana narrowed her eyes into slits. "If you think this'll keep me from ratting you out to Figgins— "

"I already talked to Principal Figgins after school and told him what happened." Mindy traced the welcome mat with the toe of her white Keds. "Well, I left out some details. But he knows it was me and Lauren and Cammie who attacked you. We'll probably get suspended."

Santana wondered if she was expected to feel remorse for that last part.

She didn't.

But the desire to slam the door in Mindy's face had somewhat subsided. "Outstanding. That should piss Zizes off just enough for branding me a dyke to become her life's mission." She pointed to the fringe that concealed a patch of tender skin on her forehead. It had taken a cotton swab dipped in acetone to finally remove the last vestiges of black marker. "Unfinished business, and all."

"If it's any consolation, I won't help her spread gossip. Your secret's safe with me."

Santana started to deny having a secret to keep, but the tablet in her hands, pages adorned by girlish swirls and I's dotted with hearts, made lying futile. She hugged it to her chest and regarded Mindy warily. Trust was not an option; she'd witnessed the girl's tendency to crack under pressure. But she decided not to push her luck by bringing that up now.

"Anyway. I should go," Mindy said, rescuing them from an awkward silence. She was already backing towards the stairs. "I just wanted to apologize."

Santana watched as the girl stumbled and, red with embarrassment, turned to flee. Much to her annoyance she felt a twinge of sympathy. "Hey, Mindy," she called, unsure if what followed would be an insult or not. She examined the girl from head to foot, taking in the rolls of baby fat that bulged under Wal-Mart brand clothes; the flat, stringy hair; the absence of makeup on pale, freckled skin.

"Uh, thanks. And sorry for calling you… what I called you."

"Me, too. Oh, and Santana? Your hair looks awesome that way."

xxx

Grimacing, Santana stood in front of the mirror on her closet door, the thin fabric of her camisole lifted. A red and purple bruise dappled her otherwise flawless torso. She grazed over it with her fingertips, touch so light that it raised gooseflesh on both arms. Being a former member of Sue Sylvester's Cheerio squad had resulted in worse injuries, but those always felt earned. There was no sense of pride linked to this one. Just sore abs.

She sighed and let her top slide back into place. As she eased out of her borrowed jeans, she heard a soft plinking at the window. The noise became persistent as she slipped into pajama bottoms, tying a neat little bow in the drawstring.

"Bird, you best get off my sill a'fores I ends you," she muttered, going over to shoo the creature away. Pulling her curtain aside, she squinted against the lamplight reflected in the windowpane. Rather than a bird tapping its beak on the glass, she saw Brittany standing in the twilight on the lawn, chucking pebbles at her second-story bedroom.

The capricious Ohio weather had recently lured her father into removing all the storm windows in the house, only to withhold its promise of spring in an icy cold grasp. Temperatures had spiked since then, but his busy schedule left him no time for installing screens. It did, however, allow Santana to open her window and lean out into the balmy night air. "What the eff are you doing?" she said, voice failing to mask her delight. "You could've just rung the doorbell."

"I thought your parents might be asleep," Brittany stage whispered.

"It's nine o'clock."

"My grandma goes to bed at six."

"My mom and dad are forty."

Brittany blinked, obviously not catching the distinction between her 80-year-old grandmother and Santana's middle-aged parents.

"Never mind." Santana directed a wave towards the front porch, intending to meet her friend there. "Come on up."

Ever literal, Brittany began scaling the ivy covered latticework that stretched from ground to eaves, its verdancy obscuring much of the brick wall underneath. She was halfway to her destination in seconds, making it useless to scold. Santana chewed anxiously on her lower lip and winced at every creak and shudder of the flimsy wood. The way her day had gone, she was probably about to watch her best friend plummet to an untimely death amongst her mother's hydrangeas.

But Brittany's luck and the lattice held out.

"Wow, didn't think I would make it," she said, as Santana tugged her to safety with a vice-like grip. "Maybe I should become a ninja."

The idea of Brittany skulking about in a form-fitting black ninja suit did appeal to Santana.

Pushing that thought aside, she brushed a leaf from newly cropped blond waves. "You're nuts," she said, giving the girl a quick, tight hug. "You could've broken your neck."

Brittany lingered in the embrace, hands clasped behind Santana's waist. "Don't worry. I'm bendy."

Suddenly hyper aware of their closeness, Santana felt a pleasant warmth diffuse in her belly. It spread to her cheeks and trickled all the way down to her toes. She wanted nothing more than to remain there, pressed against the lithe dancer's body, such a comfortable fit with her own. But lightweight pajama material did little to hide her attraction and she stepped back hurriedly, arms folded.

Since disclosing her feelings for Brittany, their days of simply fooling around had ended. It wouldn't have been hard to coerce sexual favors or "experimenting," but Santana couldn't bring herself to use the naïve girl anymore. If she was going to be with Brittany, it had to be real. She needed it to be real.

"I started to think you weren't coming," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry," Brittany said, head tilted in sincerity. "I would've been here earlier, but Lord Tubbington ate an entire packet of catnip."

Santana scrunched up her face into what she hoped looked like concern. Kittens and other baby animals were cute playthings, but she had no interest in their adult counterparts. She especially disliked Lord Tubbington, who never stopped shedding and had once puked inside her shoes during a sleepover. Brittany loved the fat, furry bastard, though.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, but he went spastic and destroyed the living room. I'm pretty sure we're gonna need a new couch."

"That sucks." Santana shut the window and took a seat on the edge of her bed, patting the spot beside her. She prepared to lend a sympathetic ear, as these cat woes tended to drag on.

"I wonder if they have kitty rehab?" Brittany plopped down on the bedspread, deep in thought. She fiddled with the large oval-shaped locket that dangled from a chain around her neck. "Oh!" she said, brightening, the latest chapter of the Tubbington saga instantly forgotten. "I have something for you."

Santana bounced eagerly and gave a silent little clap of excitement. Grinning, she waited for Brittany to dig into her pocket, then held out both hands to receive the gift.

"I saw them in Icing when we were at the mall last week," Brittany said, depositing a necklace identical to her own in Santana's outstretched palms. "I wanted to get you one, but didn't have a small enough picture of us to put in it. And then today I had a better idea."

Santana traced her finger over the designs etched on the pendant. Though not expensive, it was a pretty, classic-looking piece of jewelry. Very well chosen.

"Open it."

She obeyed.

Inside the silver casing lay a lock of blond hair, coiled and bound by golden thread. When Santana glanced up, Brittany displayed the contents of her locket— a similar tendril, this one jet-black.

"So we'll always be carrying a part of each other around," Brittany explained.

A lump formed in Santana's throat and the weight of an already emotional day culminated with that simple, sweet sentiment. Resting her head on Brittany's shoulder, she cried. Tender arms enveloped her and didn't let go until every last tear had fallen and she was too exhausted to continue. She closed her eyes and listened to the soft, comforting noises her friend made, a few of them accompanied by kisses atop the head. When her breathing had calmed, a voice whispered in her ear, "Don't you like it?"

Santana swiped a hand under her nose and sat up. "I love it," she said, clutching the keepsake to her chest. _And you_, she thought. "Thank you. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been there today."

"I'll always be there for you, sweetie," Brittany said, offering Santana her sleeve to dry the remaining tears on her cheeks. "And if I'm not, you can use the hair in your locket to clone me." She tapped the end of Santana's nose with her fingertip to show the latter statement was a joke, and not something she actually believed to be possible.

"Never." Santana returned the affectionate tap. "You're one of a kind, Ms. Pierce." She handed the necklace over and turned her head for assistance in fastening the clasp.

"What did your parents say about your new look?"

Glad for the distraction from Brittany's breath on the back of her neck, Santana faced the girl again and said, "My dad liked it. My mom was mad I did it without her consent." She fluffed her hair and shrugged. "Whatevs. She just likes to bitch, she'll get over it."

"I did get a compliment from someone unexpected, though," she added, after a ruminative pause.

"Who?"

"Mindy. She's a friend of Lauren Zizes. It was her, Lauren and some other girl named Cammie who jumped me this morning…" Santana related the pertinent information behind the visit, including the return of her journal and the possibility that the girls would be suspended.

"Bitches," Brittany concluded at the end of the tale, having already uttered the word five or six times throughout. "If you want I'll kneecap them with a pipe next time I see them."

"That won't be necessary, Tonya Harding." Santana gave Brittany's arm an appreciative squeeze. "Sweet of you to offer, but I just want to move on. And actually, this whole thing has forced me to do a lot of thinking."

"About what?"

Santana exhaled heavily, overwhelmed by the effort of putting her feelings into words. "About… about trying to hide who I am. Keeping it secret is driving me crazy. I can't sleep. I'm paranoid all the time. Lauren made it pretty clear there's not much of a secret to keep, anyway. I've been so worried about what people would say behind my back, but if they're already talking, what's the point? They get to have a laugh at my expense while I stay miserable? Pardon me for quoting Mercedes, but hell to the fucking no."

Brittany mimed raising the roof.

"Besides, I embraced being a bitch so it hurt less to be called one," Santana said. "Maybe I can apply the same philosophy to being a lesbian. It comes with a way better benefits package."

The elated grin on Brittany's face was infectious and encouraging; nevertheless, Santana hastened to add, "I'm not saying I'm ready to go full-on DeGeneres. But, if the offer still stands, I might be willing to come on _Fondue for Two _as a guest… and see where it leads?"

"Yes, absolutely." Brittany had already begun nodding before the proposition was complete. She danced a celebratory jig in her seat, shaking imaginary maracas. "I'm so happy, I could kiss you."

In mid-giggle at the girl's antics Santana abruptly quieted.

"Then, do it," she said.

The kiss — a tentative meeting of soft, barely parted lips — was mild. Chaste, even. But the delicious tingles that awakened on the entire surface of her body were unlike anything Santana had felt during the sloppy, fumbling make-out sessions with her numerous male conquests. Reluctant to lose the contact, she sat back slowly and let her eyelashes flutter open. The prettiest blue eyes imaginable gazed back at her.

Santana lost track of how long they remained like that, exchanging bashful and flirtatious smiles. Her libido demanded _more, more, more!_ But the risk of spoiling the moment, or their friendship, kept her from pressing on.

The eventful day had also left her bone-tired and achy. She glanced at the clock, surprised to see it read 9:30 PM. "It's getting late," she said grudgingly. "Did you walk here? I'll drive you home if so."

"I forgot to tell you I'm sleeping over," Brittany announced. She reached behind her back, producing a DVD case from the waistband of her jeans. On the cover Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renée Zellweger posed brashly on either side of Richard Gere, their sequins, fringe and pistols shimmering. "And we're watching _Chicago_."

"Well, okay."

Disappearing into the bathroom, Brittany reemerged minutes later in a pair of Santana's pajamas and joined her on the bed. They hadn't snuggled in a while and it took a moment to work out a comfortable arrangement that was neither frigid nor too intimate. By the time they settled in, the disc had reached its main menu and jazz music filtered through the speakers on Santana's laptop. They spent the next two hours quoting lines from the movie, humming along with the musical numbers and debating which song they should perform as a duet in front of the glee club. (Brittany couldn't decide if she preferred "And All That Jazz" choreography to that of "Cell Block Tango"; Santana campaigned relentlessly for the bawdiness of "Class," and won.)

As the end credits neared, both girls gave in to lazy yawns and drowsy blinking. When the last words faded from the screen, they were asleep, heads on the same pillow, pinkie fingers intertwined.

xxx


End file.
